What is a beautiful woman?
Is it the tilt of the head?
The ratio of the physiognomy?
The form of the body?
The coif of the hair?

No, No, No, No,
It is the inner light,
It is the helping hand,
It is the calming voice,
It is the constant presence.

Why do I know this?
My life has been blessed with such.

How can I honor them?
With this!

Jimmy Blass



There is no sky.

There are no clouds.

The world about is gone.

No birds arrive

To feed and fuss.

The fog obscures the ground.

No neighbors house appears this morn.

The forest trees all have gone

Into the mist of vapor close by the earth.

I know this too shall pass.

But for the moment I will dream

Of all the world now disappeared

And no more Sturm und Drang.

We all do hope and pray

Most every night and day

That pain and suffering of our minds

Will be befogged as now we find

This morn of obscuration.

Jimmy Blass

November 9, 2011
Rev. 10/3/2012



 Sad am I this year.
Brought there by them.
They are mine
Mine by blood and love.

Close to my heart
I have not spoken.
That is not my way.
Their life must be
Without my hectoring.

Do they know my sadness?
Will or would it help
If I spoke now,
Or is it too late,
Or too little,
To unbalance the weighted scale?

Cause my heart to sing!
Show conciliation
Accept that, we like, because of
But, we love, in spite of


Snow, a sprinkling
No, more a dusting
No, a bit more
It’s pretty

Snow in the northern climes
Greeted with joy to groans
The first of the season
Groans for the mess
Joy for the sights

To understand snow
We must to children’s minds return
The coolness on the stuck-out tongue
The bite of blowing flakes on the cheek

The southern latitudes
Have this great luck
No Snow to chastise or subdue
Those who walk through open doors
And leave them so
Have not had white flakes
Blown in behind their passage

To stomp boots
Before coming inside
Or watch the clumps sizzle
And disappear on the stove-top
Or fall into a cushion of white
Or push the shovel along the sidewalk
Or wade through drifts as high as your hips
And wish you had snowshoes like
Those who lived on the shores of
Gitche Gumee

To trudge through a virgin snowfall
Feeling like Admiral Perry of the North
Sliding down any available incline
On sled or ski or me
The first real snow
Makes puppies of grizzled old dogs

Damn the tracks on the carpet

Jim Blass
December 2007
Rev. 6/18/2012


The spring's impetuous grass,
Springing through late winter snow,
Marked by blooming forsythia,
Conquer the unyielding changes of March.

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